


Common Cause

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Echoes of Old Songs [2]
Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Noldolante
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music transcends all barriers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Cause

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the canon characters, settings or situations. I'm merely borrowing from Professor Tolkien's estate.

**Common Cause**

 

The storm blew up without warning.

 Caught by surprise, Gil-Galad and Elrond hastened to find what shelter they could, finally coming across a tiny huddle of wattle and daub huts, a small human village. Hammering on the framework of the largest hut, they waited, shivering in the rain, until a shivering mortal emerged to offer them wide-eyed hospitality. Gratefully, they stepped inside the fire-lit hut, thankful merely for warmth and shelter – and then stopped, faced with at least a score of humans, all watching them with poorly disguised fear and awe.

 Gil-Galad’s attention was caught by a very young girl-child, no more than two or three years old, who stared at him, fascinated, with long-lashed, liquid dark eyes that would break hearts when she grew older. She scrambled up to her feet and toddled towards him, giggling, before her mother hastened to gather her up, close to her breast.

 Self-conscious now, they accepted the place of honour nearest the fire-pit, and graciously thanked their host for a steaming bowl of stew. It was hot, and soon enough they were warm and dry, and they were grateful for small mercies. As they ate, they could feel the villagers’ eyes upon them.

 The villagers were of the old, old blood, their eyes dark and unfathomable, filled not with noble wisdom but with the ancient knowledge of their own mortality. They were closer to the earth and the cycle of the seasons than their Numenorean cousins, their lives shorter, harsher, and simpler – these were the mortals of long-lost Beleriand, wary, secretive, holding fast to what little they had with grim, stoic determination.

 “They have never before had elven guests,” Elrond murmured to him, warming his hands against the clay bowl of stew. “Their tales speak of the Golden One, long, long ago, when the world was new – but they thought him a myth, not flesh and blood reality.”

 Finrod Felagund, who had been cousin to Gil-Galad’s father –

 For a long, terrible moment, Gil-Galad felt the weight of thousands of years weighing down on him.

 ************

 Later, as the storm continued to rage outside – thunder crashing, wind roaring, torrential rain pounding against the flimsy roof – one of the mortals brought out a small, battered lap-harp, his eyes bright with dreams and fascination.

 Elrond hesitated a long, long time before reaching out to take the harp and cradle it on his lap. His eyes distant and focused on some strange inner landscape, he sat by the guttering fire-pit and plucked absently at the small instrument. He played single notes, at first, almost at random, and then slowly he began to weave them together, until they coalesced into half-recognised melody and song. It was an old, old song, rarely heard now, an ancient mortal hymn to their hidden, earthy gods; Gil-Galad thought he saw some of the old, dark-eyed crones nodding in solemn recognition.

 It was not a night for merry, spritely music; Elrond played simple songs and mournful ballads, complex court melodies and strange, alien songs of men, switching effortlessly between Sindarin, the High Tongue, and the human tongue. The music wove webs of comfort and magic inside the crowded, over-heated hut, while outside the storm crashed and howled.

 Finally, as the night grew old, Gil-Galad recognised the stark, deceptively simple introduction to Maglor Feanorion’s _Noldolante_. Gil-Galad had heard it played thousands of times before, countless bards, minstrels, and musicians echoing the familiar chords and verses – but here, in the firelit dark, it was as if it was his first time again, hearing the words in the hoarse-velvet tones of Maglor himself, on the night before the last assault on Thangorodrim.

 The humans, too, wept to hear of paradise lost, some common chord of grief and mourning allowing them to understand the lament, though Elrond sang it in the ancient style, in the formal Quenya of the kinslayers themselves.

 And then, when the last shimmering chords finally faded away, there was no applause, as might be expected of such a performance, but profound silence. The humans blinked and shook their heads, as though emerging from a dream, and the head man stood to bow with simple dignity and gratitude to his remarkable guests.

 Gil-Galad bowed in return, and Elrond, once he had shaken off the spell of the music, inclined his head. There was no more talk or chatter, but a quiet agreement that the night was over – a yawning villager showed them to their pallets, nearest the fire, and Gil-Galad and Elrond cast themselves down with genuine gratitude.

 Outside, the driving wind had calmed, and the rain subsided to a gentle murmur. In the warmth and fragile shelter of the human settlement, Gil-Galad and Elrond slept.


End file.
